It Could Change Your Life
by Morbidly Obscure
Summary: A young boy becomes GraveRobber, and little Carmella Largo becomes Amber Sweet. This is their story, and it's not a very pretty one. Gramber.
1. Addicted to the Knife

**So...this plot bunny popped into my head, then turned totally feral and attacked me. I'd have to say Gramber is one of my LEAST favorite pairings in the movie, but here I am writing it. Go figure. **

**All of this takes place when Carmella (Amber) and GraveRobber are teenagers, focusing on the development of their relationship, whatever that might be. I may have mucked up a few details, and I made everybody really closed together in age. I hope that doesn't bother anybody too much. Okay, that's all I have to say. Please read, enjoy, and review!**

**Disclaimer: I wish every day that I owned these Repo! And its characters, but I don't :( **

**1. (Amber Sweet is) Addicted to the Knife**

****"DADDY!"

"_Dad!"_

"Papa~!"

Rotti Largo gave a resigned sigh as his three offspring wrestled their way into his office. God forbid he ever get any work done.

Carmella, his youngest child and only daughter stalked over to his desk. "Dad_dy_, Luigi's making fun of me, and Pavi keeps trying to _touch_ me. Make them _stop_!"

"What _else_ am I supposed to do, Dad?" Fifteen-year-old Luigi demanded, several decibels louder than necessary, "The little skank got breast implants! They're ridiculous!"

"The Pavi thinks-a they're lovely," The scarred fourteen-year-old put in cheerfully as he made a grab for his younger sister's chest. Carmella slapped his hand away and crossed her arms, giving her father a "_see-what-I-mean?_" look.

Rotti ground his teeth. He'd long since accepted that his sons were not only imbeciles, but mentally unstable imbeciles. Luigi's temper tantrums had lasted through his childhood, and were now looking more like a product of psychotic rage disorder than anything else; he'd "accidentally" stabbed a Gentern last week, and Rotti doubted it would get any better from there. Pavi, on the other hand, had made a game of snatching the panties out from under the Genterns little white skirts and had attracted so many sexual harassment lawsuits that Rotti had a lawyer set aside for that alone. Even more troubling, after the boy's recent run-in with one of Earth's last surviving raccoons (quite feral from rabies and malnourishment,) Pavi had started wearing greasepaint to cover the resulting scars; he was still looking for "el-perfecto" mask. He'd also started using that God-awful accent to cover his speech impediment. Of his three progeny, Rotti could tell Carmella was the only one with any semblance of brains, and he was starting to worry about her, as well.

"Boys, leave your sister alone," Rotti commanded, hellfire in his eyes, "and get out of my sight."

"But—!"

"_Out!_"

Luigi and Pavi slunk out of the room, glaring at their sister, who wore a self-satisfied smirk.

"Thanks, daddy," Carmella said and turned to leave.

"Carmela," Rotti stopped her. He paused. He knew from his litany of wives that criticizing a woman's surgery was dangerous territory, but something had to be said. "Were the...implants really necessary?"

"They're just for fun, daddy. An experiment," Carmella insisted, "why, is something wrong?"

"You've had so many surgeries lately," Rotti said, "you're starting to not look like yourself anymore."

"What's so bad about that?" Carmella muttered. Then, before her father could say anything else, she perked up. "Am I still signed on for that lung transplant next week? It would really suck to get asthma."

"Yes, of course," Rotti sighed.

"Great! Thanks, daddy," Carmella enthused, skipping forward to peck her father on the cheek. She bounced out of the room, not leaving anymore space for conversation. Rotti watched her go. Yes, he really was starting to worry about her.

**OoO**

The first thing Carmella did when she got to her room was check herself out in her floor-length rococo mirror. She admired her new breast implants and glanced critically at her cheek bones; perhaps it was time to have them redone? Maybe put a little slant on them. Deciding not to dwell on the matter, Carmella switched the mirror to X-Ray mode, so she could admire her designer heart. Geneco had started pitching that particular surgery as a Valentine's day special. Carmella's had a little filter filled with special blue dye, so her blood was tinted purple. Pretty cool, but she thought she might update to the more recent, glow-in-the-dark model.

Sighing, she turned off the mirror and flopped down on her canopy bed. In a fit of frustration, Carmella kicked her feet against the mattress. Truth was, her father was right to be concerned. Carmella now acknowledged that she was "addicted to the knife," as people called it, or, in less kind terms, a "scalpel slut." She had had her first surgery when she was eleven—a pancreas replacement, because her mother had been a diabetic until she'd gotten the same procedure years back, and there was really no point in taking chances. Carmella had felt so good inside afterward, so _improved_, that she was eager to see what else her father's battery of SurGENS had to offer.

Before Carmella turned thirteen, she'd had three more surgeries: a scalp transplant, to make her curly, blonde hair dark and straight, then cornea replacements to turn her boring blue eyes a lovely amethyst color, and finally a whole-body skin-graft to make her tan. It wasn't that Carmella felt the need to change to make herself beautiful—she thought change _was_ beautiful. Yeah, well, "addicted to the knife" was a pretty good way of putting it, also.

And now a larger issue had manifested itself. Naturally, Carmella had always gotten the best SurGENS, supplied with the best Zydrate, which was administered to her in ample quantities. As time wore on, and surgery after surgery took place, Carmella developed a tolerance to the pain-killer. She had taken to sneaking shots from her SurGENS guns whenever they turned their backs. Now, as pain radiated through Carmella's chest from her latest surgery, she longed for the blissful painlessness bestowed by the glowing blue drug. At night, when she lay in bed, Carmella could feel the chills, sweats, and tremors of withdrawal.

Nobody could know about this. Carmella was Geneco's poster-child for recreational surgery, as well as the _responsible_ use of legal Zydrate as a pain-killer. If the public were to find out, she would be ruined. If her father found out, he would be humiliated, and Carmella would lose any hope of ever inheriting Geneco. She needed to keep this quiet, but she needed Zydrate even more.

Well, Carmella was just going to have to be more creative about getting her fix.


	2. To Steal and Rob Graves

**2. (and it's my job) To Steal and Rob Graves**

_Okay, you can do this_, the fourteen-year-old boy thought as he loomed over a freshly dug-up corpse. Digging the grave, pulling up the rotted body, that had been doable. Hell, he'd been whistling a cheerful tune the entire time (in blatant disregard for the GeneCops swarming the cemetery.) The physical work had allowed him to forget his true task, but now he was paralyzed.

_If you don't have the balls to do what you need to survive, you don't **deserve** to,_ he reminded himself, still clutching the syringe in his fist.

It had seemed so easy in theory; _fun_ even. He would flout the rules of this world that had taken so much from him,while also exploiting its weakness by entering the lucrative-but-highly-illegal business of Zydrate dealing. He would mock death by dredging up bodies from the seemingly endless supply of graveyards and scoff at authority by ducking the GeneCops looking for criminals like him. He'd supply all the desperate Zydrate-junkies filling up the crummy ally-ways, ruling over the city's damned souls. He would become a God of the Underworld; a post-modern Hades.

All of this, it turned out, was a lot more difficult in application.

The boy was just that—a boy. If the universe was kind, he would be curled up on the shabby bed of his previous run-down home with his parents safe and snoring in the room beside his. Instead, however, he was in a graveyard, about to stick a needle up a cadaver's nose. His parents had never had much money, you see, and they'd both gotten organ transplants years before, so instead of being safe and snoring in a bed, they were vivisected and rotting in an unmarked grave somewhere, courtesy of the Repo-Man. Their deaths had left him with nothing but his own misery. The house had been snatched up as GeneCo property, he'd been tossed to the streets, and school? Forget it. Food and shelter were the only important things now.

So, did the boy really _want_ to violate this helpless dead body in his arms? No. It was just another victim of this screwed-up world. It didn't deserve to be exploited for the sake of drug-trafficking, but nobody actually ever got what they deserved. See, the boy wasn't going to be a victim anymore. If he didn't want to wind up starved to death in some alley downtown, he was going to need to be a predator. So, yeah, this world was screwed up, twisted, unfair, ugly, and a whole lot of other nasty things,

_But,_ the boy thought with a grin that wasn't wholly sane, _isn't it better to be living in it, then rotting below it?_

"Believe me when I say," the boy murmured to the body as he slid the needle up its nose and into its putrefied brain, "it's nothing personal."

As the precious blue liquid filled up his syringe, the boy abandoned his prior identity as a faceless gutter-rat, and in turn became GraveRobber.


	3. A Little Glass Vial

**3. (Zydrate comes in) A Little Glass Vial**

****_"Zydrate Addicts Support Group"_

If he'd believed in that sort of thing at all, GraveRobber would have thought that sign was heaven-sent. Seriously—_jackpot._ As the fourteen-year-old approached the alley way, though, the paralysis he'd experienced at the bone-yard hit him all over again. He hid from view in the shadows (he was good at that,) watching the junkies mope about the alley. It was their eyes that stopped GraveRobber in his tracks. All he could see were pairs of orbs filled with apathy, misery, and acute desperation. They were the eyes of the thoroughly broken.

_Ah, hell, screw it_, GraveRobber thought, _I'll collect cans. Dumpster-diving isn't so bad, anyway. People throw out some perfectly edible stuff._

Before he could retreat, however, his voice of reason prevailed.

_These people are trash. They've made their choices, and they're going to suffer for it either way. It's not like you'll be giving them anything they don't already want._

So there it was. He'd gone to the trouble of procuring this stuff, and he was damn well going to sell it. Now, how to proceed? Well, he'd never been one for subtlety, so GraveRobber plastered a smirk onto his face and sauntered out into the middle of the alley with his loaded Zydrate gun held high.

"Zydrate comes in a little glass vial..."

**OoO**

Carmella had never been to this part of the city before. Sure, she'd been out with her friends, but that was always in the shop and restaurant-filled heart of the city, never the dangerous-looking, rundown ghettos she now trod alone. Carmella felt painfully out of place in her expensive white dress with the ostrich-feather skirt. She refused to be frightened, though; Carmella had a _purpose_ here, and she wasn't about to let nerves deter her.

"_Zydrate Addicts Support Group"_

Carmella stopped and stared at the sign. Now, that was promising. She hurried over, kitten-heels tapping on the unpaved ground. There, in the alley, was exactly what she'd been looking for. A boy who couldn't be more than a year older than Carmella herself was administering Zydrate shots to a clamoring crowd of junkies. The boy had long hair with a few streaks of mulit-colored dye (Carmella noted that that seemed to be the style in these parts) and Zydrate-blue eyes that seemed to dance with mischief. He was tall and lithe, wearing a grungy looking overcoat and big, beat-up boots. In Carmela's eyes, he was the personification of an alley-cat. Even his smile was distinctly feline.

A thought popped randomly into Carmella's head: _maybe, he'll follow me home, and I'll get to keep him_. The idea made her giggle. Suddenly, those gleaming blue eyes snapped up and fixed on her, and that Cheshire-Cat grin widened, giving Carmela all kinds of wonderful shivers.


	4. It's Pure

**4. (it's quick, it's clean,) It's Pure**

GraveRobber had to admit, he was feeling pretty damn pleased with himself. All of his qualms—moral or what have you—went away when the money appeared. And what do you know, it was kind of fun. GraveRobber wasn't going to kid himself into thinking that he actually mattered to any of these people, but it's pretty hard not to feel at least a little important when a small, desperate hoard is clinging to you, making little noises of extreme longing.

Just as he was finishing up with the last paying junkie, GraveRobber heard a giggle from the alley entrance. Standing there was a girl, looking totally inappropriate in a little white dress with a feather skirt, like an angel lost in the middle of hell. Now, that idea really amused him. GraveRobber caught her eyes and gave her his best smile. Even from here, he could see her shudder in what he wrongly assumed was fear. Still grinning, he swaggered over to her, taking in her short brown hair (done in some funky cut,) violet eyes (obviously not natural,) full chest (he could just barely see the surgery scars,) dress bodice (tight,) skirt (short,) legs (nice,) and strappy white heels (hard to run in.)

"What can I do for you, sweetheart?" He drawled. Intentionally, GraveRobber stood so he blocked her entrance into the alley and leaned an arm on the alley wall beside her. He could tell that his sudden closeness made her nervous, but she didn't step back.

All at once, the doubt and worry cleared from the girl's eyes, and GraveRobber could swear he saw her lips quirk upward in a tiny grin. Her face set in determination, and the girl pushed passed GraveRobber into the alley so that she was standing in front of him.

"Do you sell Zydrate?" She demanded in her most business-like tone.

GraveRobber looked down at the gun in his hand, then at the blissed-out junkies lingering in the alley way. "Is that a trick question?"

"I need some," She said bluntly.

GraveRobber snickered. "Carmella Largo, heiress of GeneCo, is a Zydrate addict," he said, almost in sing-song, "doesn't that just beat all?"

Because _of course_ he recognized her. He didn't live under a goddamned rock_. _GraveRobber saw the face of the girl before him on so many posters, billboards, and magazines that it made him sick. True, she looked a little different on each one, but she was still obviously identifiable.

"Who says I'm addicted?" Carmella snapped defensively. GraveRobber raised an eyebrow, and she sighed. "Look, I just had a surgery—"

"I'm so happy for you," GraveRobber interjected snarkily.

"—_And_ I'm in a lot of pain. So can you just give me the damned drug? _Pretty, pretty please_?" Carmella finished, with enough sarcasm to make GraveRobber's previous statement curl up in embarrassed defeat.

"Fine," GraveRobber shrugged, "no doubt you're good for it."

"_Duh_," Carmella rolled her eyes. She handed over the cash, and GraveRobber pulled out a little glass vial full of the neon blue elixir. As he started to load it into the gun, however, Carmella snatched it out of his hand. "I can get a gun all on my own, _thanks_. God knows where yours has been."

"Whatever makes you happy, sweetheart," GraveRobber said, slightly bemused. "Guess I'll be seeing you later."

"Bet on it," Carmella called back over her shoulder as she strode confidently away, surprisingly fast and graceful in those heels.

"I think I've found my favorite customer," GraveRobber muttered, then he settled against one of the grimy walls to count his earnings.

**OoO**

_Well, that definitely could've gone worse,_ Carmella thought as she tucked the little glass vial into her bra. _At least he's hot._

Carmela couldn't lie—she found herself attracted to the young dealer. Despite his snark and grunge, he was undeniably charismatic. And underneath all that smirk, swagger, and bravado, this God of the Underworld was really rather cute. Yeah, Carmela had seen the freckles.


	5. Love Market

**5. (drug market) Love Market**

So, at some point in the last year, Carmella had decided it would be fun to jerk him around. GraveRobber was fifteen now, and he had a pretty sweet system going with the Zydrate Support Group, as well as a few other junkie hotspots he'd come across. Things would have been going great, if Carmella Largo hadn't taken it into her drugged-out brain to start stealing from him. Here's how it would go: the fourteen-year-old heiress would show up, bug GraveRobber until he gave her a hit, and droop to the ground in a semi-comatose puddle. Inevitably, some other addict would show up and GraveRobber would have to go and service them. By the time he returned, Carmella would be gone.

Obviously, this had nothing to do with money. There was no doubt in GraveRobber's mind that Carmella could pay if she wanted to; she just liked screwing with him. So today, when Carmella strutted into the Support Group in yet another one of her hot little outfits, he grabbed her throat and shoved her against the nearest wall.

"You are playing a dangerous game, sweetheart," he informed her, adding a menacing growl to his voice for effect. If there was anything GraveRobber had learned, it was that effect was everything. That was why he'd started with the white-face and black lip tint; it served no practical purpose, but he liked the look and feel of it, like slipping on a mask. The first time Carmella had seen him with the white-face, she seemed mildly disappointed, though GraveRobber had no idea why.

"Wouldn't be fun any other way," Carmella purred, and GraveRobber let go. She'd changed in the past year, as well. Now, every step she took, every word she said, and every goddamned look she gave had a practiced seductive undertone that became more and more natural every day. Also, the amount of clothing she wore seemed to be inversely proportional to the time that passed.

Now, GraveRobber glared at Carmella as she rubbed her sore neck, wondering if it would bruise. It wouldn't. GraveRobber hadn't grabbed her hard enough, and Carmella knew that. She was kind of disappointed—if there was a bruise, she would have an excuse for another skin graft.

"So, why the enthusiastic greeting?" Carmella asked after a brief stare down, "I mean, I know you're thrilled to see me, but a simple 'hi' would have done just fine."

"Eight-hundred, thirty-two dollars," GraveRobber said in lieu of answering.

"Huh?" Carmella's eyes—currently green, with eerie gold pupils—widened innocently. GraveRobber resisted rolling his own eyes; Carmella Largo, innocent? Yeah right.

"That's how much you owe me," he said, as though Carmella didn't already know.

The now-redhead sighed dramatically. "It's been hard lately, y'know? I only get so much allowance, and I can't let Daddy suspect anything."

"I care!" GraveRobber sputtered, surprised that Carmella would even try that sympathy crap.

"It is what it is," Carmela shrugged, taking advantage of GraveRobber's proximity to run a hand down his chest. GraveRobber steadfastly ignored the gesture; Carmela's new "Lolita" act might get her what she wanted from some people, but GraveRobber wasn't about to be distracted by some spoilt princess like her. After all, Carmella's only reason for spending any increment of time with him was the Zydrate he supplied her with. In all likelihood, she thought of him as a worthless gutter-rat, good for nothing but giving her the fix she needed. For some reason, that thought made GraveRobber's fists clench.

"Yeah, you got that right, sweetheart," GraveRobber broke away, taking a few steps backward and turned on his heel, "so don't expect any more of the Z until you can actually _pay_ for it."

Next thing GraveRobber knew, he could feel Carmella's hot breath on the back of his neck and her hands resting on his hips, not far from where the Zydrate vials were clipped on his belt. "I could pay another way."

GraveRobber froze, not entirely believing what he'd just heard. Sure, their exchanges had always had a flirty edge to them, but that was just bravado. Neither one of them was supposed to actually _act_ on any of it. He whirled around, grabbing Carmella by the shoulders and holding her a few inches away. "_What_?"

"I _said_ I could pay—"

"I heard you," GraveRobber interrupted, very glad for the white-face covering his suddenly heated cheeks. He stared into those ever-changing eyes for a moment, then gave a little laugh as he regained his senses. "Right. Sorry sweetheart, you're not worth eight hundred."

Carmella glared at him, crossing her skinny arms over her surgically-enhanced chest. "Look, I'll get you the frigging money next time, okay? Just let me earn a hit now. This way."

GraveRobber took another step back as she reached for the zipper of his pants. "Listen, sweetheart, you do _not_ want to mess with me. Not like this."

"I'm not messing with you," the scalpel-slut snapped, "Jesus. I'm serious as a goddamned organ failure."

"Well..." GraveRobber glanced around the deserted backstreet. He told himself he was checking for voyeurs, but really he was trying to find an escape route.

"Whatsa matter, Graves? Can't get it up if the girl's breathing?" Carmella taunted, wrapping her arms around GraveRobber's neck.

"You know what?" He retorted, "I'd get less diseases and more money out of a corpse."

"What _is_ your problem," Carmella demanded, getting miffed, "it's not like it's my first time or anything." Actually, it would be her second. Her first was just this week with one of the few male Genterns working for her father. And Luigi had killed him afterward. But none of that needed to be said. The truth was, even that experience had only been practice for this—a test run, so she'd know what she was doing with GraveRobber. She wasn't entirely sure why, but Carmella wanted this, and Carmella always got what she wanted.

"Yeah, well—" GraveRobber hesitated, and Carmella just _knew_.

"Oh God. You're a virgin," Carmella laughed, delighting in this new information. On some level, she was relieved; GraveRobber had always seemed so streetwise, so _experienced_, Carmella had actually felt intimidated.

"I am not!" GraveRobber protested immediately, face burning with anger, indignity, and embarrassment. Okay, so Carmella had called it. GraveRobber wasn't naïve, in any sense of the word; he knew his way perfectly well around the female form, and plenty of girls had gotten familiar with _his_ anatomy as well, but he'd never done the whole deal.

_It's just, I dunno, too intimate,_ he'd always thought. Better just to get off and get over it, cause there would never be anybody lining up to date a kid who slept in a dumpster. Fine by him—"long-term relationship" was like a dirty word in GraveRobber's mind. Now though, he wished he had taken that final step, if just to have the experience behind him and Carmella Largo off his back.

"GraveRobber's a virgin! GraveRobber's a virgin!" Carmela sang loudly. GraveRobber clamped a hand over her mouth. Her tongue darted out to lick his palm. He removed his hand and groaned.

"_Fine_. I'll fuck you, okay? Just shut up!"

"Well, you don't have to make it sound like such a _punishment_."


	6. Can't Get It Up

**...I had too much fun writing this chapter. Fumbly virgin sex FTW.**

**Disclaimer: Nope. Still don't own it.**

**6. Can't Get It Up (if the girl's breathing)**

"So, I just...like this?"

"It's not _rocket science_. Look, you just put your gun...against my anatomy."

"Heh. Right."

"Graves, it's—"

"Yeah, I know."

"You're not—"

"I _know._"

"It can't—"

"I know!"

"It won't—"

"I KNOW!"

"Well damn, I'm not happy about it either. I mean, I'm trying to be understanding, but it's kinda hard not to get offended..."

"Shut up, okay? We're lying on the ground of a cold, grimy alley, and this pile of rotting garbage next to us isn't exactly _mood_ setting."

"Oh, _I'm_ sorry. Did you want me to take you out to dinner first? Get a hotel room with rose petals and candles?"

"Depends. Would you pay for it?"

"..."

"..._Damn_ it."

"Is there anything I could _do?___Like, would it help if I pretended to be a corpse?"

"You could start by not talking."

"..."

"Okay, I've got—"

"Hee-hee."

"_Ow_! What the hell was that for?"

"I like it rough."

"You just kicked me in the face!"

"And look what happened! You masochist."

"...Total coincidence."

**OoO**

About twenty feverish minutes of awkward-yet-enjoyable rubbing, moaning, and thrusting later, the teens were still lying down in the damp gutter. Carme;la was resting her head on GraveRobber's chest (he'd never even gotten around to taking his jacket off,) and he had his hand over Carmella's stomach.

"That was...kind of awesome," GraveRobber mused despite himself. Carmella glanced up and gave him a sly smile.

"Know what's even better?" Carmella asked, straightening her gold lame mini-skirt. "This!" Before GraveRobber could react, she snatched a glowing blue vial of Zydrate from the holster on his waist, popped up, and darted off with a school-girlish giggle. She paused to blow a mocking kiss back at the dealer before disappearing down an unmarked street.

_This,_ GraveRobber thought, staring after the scalpel-slut, _is the beginning of a beautiful trainwreck._


	7. Things You See in a Graveyard

**Hey Guys! This was supposed to be a Halloween bonus chapter, but I wasn't able to write in time because...well, I'm really lame. Sorry :(**

**Regardless, happy belated Halloween! **

**7. Things You See in a Graveyard**

According to old-timers, Halloween was once a day when little kids would go door-to-door and get candy. Now, October 31st marked the date of the Crucifixus Costume Ball—a less-than family-friendly occasion. Of course, GraveRobber planned to attend. The event was a perfect chance to swipe goods and tools from the vendor booths and surgery tents, and it also had the potential to be supremely entertaining. GraveRobber could take or leave the burlesques, operettas, and dance routines occurring on the collection of small stages, but he could never turn down such a prime possibility for people-watching. It didn't bother GraveRobber that bad (or at all, really...) that he wouldn't be getting in to the main stage, as it was heavily guarded by GeneCops and Genterns (those girls were scrawny, but they had knives concealed in some very unlikely places, and boy did they know how to use them.)

GraveRobber had been skulking around a liver transplant tent (a favorite venue for the city's thriving population of alcoholics) waiting for his chance to snatch some of those little glass vials, when the voice of Carmella Largo interrupted his pursuits.

"Hey Graves, get a costume. You're my date for the evening."

"Oh, but Sweetheart, this _is _my costume," GraveRobber turned around slowly. He was wearing a nice business suit. "And what are you on about?"

"I need a date. You'll do." Carmella said, biting back a grin, "I figure you can dance?"

GraveRobber cocked his head to one side; this was a new development in their little game. After a moment, he grinned and extended his arm. "How could I say no to someone wearing such marvelously kinky attire?"

Carmella was wearing what amounted to a bikini made of bandages, and her skin was tinted green with authentic stitches scattered about. Her hair was dyed and done-up in that old-school Bride of Frankenstein style. GraveRobber could just see a cheesy Frankenstein mask somewhere in his immediate future.

"I knew you'd like it," Carmella said, linking her arm with his, "you fucking necrophile."

**OoO**

At 4 am, the Ball was _finally_ over, and GraveRobber and Carmella were making out. On the main stage. The truly bizarre thing though, was that this was the first time they'd ever kissed. They'd humped like rabbits, sure, but there had never been an iota of lip-on-lip contact. Kissing, was it turns out, is vastly underrated.

Of course, if anybody were to walk in on them, Carmella would be disgraced, and GraveRobber would probably be done in execution-style by Rotti's scary, fishnetted henchgirls, but really, the risk was half the fun. Actually, it was kind of the point. The real whole _raison d'etre_ for the night came from the fact that Carmella got a kick out of playing boyfriend-girlfriend with a wanted criminal right under her father's nose, and GraveRobber felt the same way about pretending to date GeneCo's favorite heiress.

Neither of them could dwell on the subject anymore, though, because GraveRobber was tugging the bandages that comprised Carmella's costume. They unraveled like old cobwebs, and the rest was an earnest but failed attempt at silence.

**OoO**

The next morning, both junkie and dealer found themselves in the pretty, expertly feng-shuied haven of Carmella's bedroom, nestled amongst the plush plethora of pillows that filled her coccoon-like canopy bed. Carmella was biting down on one such pillow as GraveRobber endeavored to remove her stitches.

"Holy Zombie-Jesus," GraveRobber grumbled as he worked at the black strings with a pair of Carmella's pedicure scissors, "What made you think it was a good idea to get these?"

"Shut uuuuuup," Carmella groaned, writhing in pain, "Admit it, you thought they were hot, you sick—_FUCK! _What the hell, Graves?"

"Sorry," GraveRobber muttered, even though he wasn't, "thought a scalpel-slut like you would be used to this sort of thing."

"Ow, ow, ow," Carmella whimpered out in lieu of answering. When she'd overcome the sharp stabs of pain, she ground out, "oh, and just a little tip? Never try to be a SurGEN. Your bedside manner sucks."

"Wasn't planning on it, Sweetheart," GraveRobber chuckled, continuing his work with somewhat sadistic amusement. "O-kay, looks like I'm done." As Carmella turned over, he quickly pocketed the scissors. Who knows when someone like GraveRobber was going to be in need of a sharp object?

"_Took_ you long enough," Carmella grumbled, sitting up, "I think you got off on that."

"Well, you do make the hottest little sounds when your in pain," GraveRobber smirked. He knew that if the situation were reversed, Carmella would have enjoyed the hell out of herself as well. They were both sick fucks, really; undoubtedly going to burn in their own special level of hell.

Without really thinking about it, GraveRobber leaned forward to kiss Carmella on the lips, but she evaded.

"Nuh-uh," Carmella said, "not unless you've got something to trade."

GraveRobber's expression changed, became neutral. So this was it then, huh? The illusion was over. It had been fun to be different people for a night, but now they were back to reality. Both GraveRobber and Carmella were going to have to accept it, because if one of them didn't, that person was going to lose their little game. And losing was unthinkable.

"Nah. All out," GraveRobber said, forcing an easy grin, "Guess I'd better get going."

"Yeah," Carmella fake-yawned, stretching so that the coverlet fell from her naked, still slightly green body, "see you around."

_Vicious little tease, _GraveRobber thought idly.

"Oh, I count on it," he said aloud, passing through the doorway into the early morning hush of the Largo mansion. He made his way through the manor with the same easy stealth he practiced in the graveyards. On the way out, he grabbed a few jars of organs from the storeroom; that shit really sells on the black market.


	8. With the Agony

**Sorry for the wait, but I felt like I should post this chapter when it was seasonally appropriate ;)**

**7. (a little help) With the Agony**

Christmas in GeneCo City was generally a bombastic, blasphemous affair with much ado about the 12 Days of Festivals in Sanitarium Square and holiday specials on organ replacements, while any religious, moral, or spiritual aspects to the holiday were cheerfully ignored. On the Christmas Eve of her fourteenth year, Carmella Largo was sneaking out of her home in GeneCo towers to buy drugs. You see, over the past week she'd received upwards of ten surgeries in preparation for her roles in the big Christmas Operas, so she was in dire need of a little help with the agony.

Prior to Carmella's surreptitious exit, Christmas Eve for the Largo's had followed the same dysfunctional pattern as always. Pavi had covered every available surface in plastic mistletoe and repeatedly tried to get Luigi and Carmella together under it at great risk to his physical well-being. Luigi oversaw the Genterns as they decorated the Largo's tree, frequently chucking glass ornaments at their red-masked faces if they weren't working fast enough or he didn't like the look of things, which was often. Carmella laughed her ass off at the both of them. Their father holed up in his office with copious amounts of very stiff eggnog.

The next morning, gifts (bought for each other by Genterns) would be exchanged, then they'd all head out to the Opera to perform, give a speech, and/or deal with the press. After that, out of a mutual sense of obligation, the Largo's would eat an expensive dinner together at an extravagant restaurant before heading home. They would all take their accustomed places in Rotti's office and drink the remaining eggnog until they actually started to enjoy each others presence. Alcohol-influenced sentimentality would occur including, but not limited to, slurred compliments, apologies, and declarations of love, sloppy hugging, crying, and cheek kissing, and lots of rowdy singing. After some time, Rotti would pass out on his desk and his children would leave. Luigi and Pavi would go off on some drunken escapade with a group of lucky/unlucky Genterns, and Carmella would go to her room and get high.

But all of that was neither here nor there. Right now, Carmella was striding purposefully downtown in search of her dealer and his little glass vials. Her beige minx coat just barely avoided brushing the dirty ground, and her heeled suede boots tapped out the staccato rhythm of her steps. Carmella was growing increasingly frustrated. She'd checked out all of GraveRobber's usual haunts and hadn't seen hide nor hair of the Zydrate peddler.

Where could that spooky bastard be?

**OoO**

GraveRobber was happy to be finishing business early that Christmas Eve. It was an unusually cold night in GeneCo City, and a fine snow had begun to fall. Snow always excited little kids these days because it was so rare. With all the ozone damage and air pollution, it hardly ever got cold enough for the stuff to freeze up properly. Thanks to the heavily-contaminated atmosphere, however, snow was not the clean, glittering affair that some of the older people remembered; it was more like smelly gray ash falling from the sky. GraveRobber thought this was fitting—nothing in the world was pure anymore.

Now that he was no longer occupied with his usual motley crowd of junkies, the fifteen-year-old found his mind wandering back to the days when he wasn't GraveRobber at all, but just some stupid little kid. Christ, could that really have only been a few years ago?

It was pretty sappy and lame, but he always had enjoyed Christmastime. His parents went about it the traditional way. On Christmas Eve, his Dad would light a real fire—not one of the artificial ones everybody else used—and his mother would bake an honest-to-God apple pie. Nobody baked anymore, for good reason. Food didn't grow so well these days, so everything was artificial flavoring and injected vitamins in "nutritional substitute" of mysterious origin. Genuine ingredients were an expensive commodity, but his Mom would splurge and buy real apples, cinnamon, flour, sugar, and eggs to make the pie.

It tasted like frigging heaven.

His parents would tell stories about how St. Nicholas would reward the good kids with presents and punish the bad kids with coal. Even in those days, GraveRobber never could believe the stories—he knew there was no such thing as justice—but he liked to hear them all the same. The next morning, there would be some crappy toy or comic book wrapped in newspaper under their scraggly tree, waiting for him. Apparently, it didn't take much to make him happy back then because he'd loved those dirt-cheap gifts.

Well, all that was nice while it lasted.

These past few years, GraveRobber had a different way of celebrating. His Christmas Eve plans included buying a few cheap bottles of spirits at a crappy little liquor store that didn't care what age its customers were, as long as they had cash. He'd also grab a bunch of those tiny plastic-wrapped candy canes stores left out for free in little bowls this time of year. He'd take this holiday feast to Sanitarium Square when everybody was home for the night and break into the Christmas display. It was actually a pretty nice set-up—GraveRobber liked to lounge against a fluffy pile of fake snow, enjoying the warmth and low-light from the surrounding heat lamps. When he was done with his alcohol and candy, GraveRobber would leave the bottles somewhere in the display, like in the plastic polar bear's open maw, or in the Santa-Clause dummy's ruddy fist.

Okay, so it was pretty juvenile, but GraveRobber got a kick out of it anyway.

Right now, he was rather looking forward to his solitary celebration. He gathered his belongings quickly and headed off. He was totally out of Zydrate, so the last thing he wanted was to run into a certain persistent scalpel-slut. No sooner had he thought that than GraveRobber heard the familiar click of heels echoing through the alleys. Speak of the scantily-clad devil.

Opting this time for flight over fight, GraveRobber hurried away from the offending noise, all the while thinking,

_Something wicked this way comes_.


	9. Might Fine Predicament

**8. (a) Mighty Fine Predicament**

_There._

A swish of coat, a baritone hum, a clunk of heavy boots, and a flash of multi-colored hair. It was Carmella's GraveRobber. As she approached, the humming stopped abruptly, and the clunk of boots got faster and farther away. Carmella hurriedly rounded the corner to see...nothing.

_Huh?_

She looked around, baffled. No sign of GraveRobber.

**Skr_iiiiiiii_tch-CLANK!**

The sound of metal scraping concrete followed by a louder, sharper noise. Carmella stomped over to the manhole cover on the sidewalk and, with great effort, pulled the metal top aside. There, clutching the slimy metal rungs, was GraveRobber, looking up at Carmella with a look that clearly said, "_...Shit_."

"Evenin' sweetheart," he said aloud in perfectly conversational tones, as though he hadn't just been trying to escape to the sewers.

"Where the hell have you been?" Carmella snapped at the older teen, "I've been looking freakin' _everywhere _for you."

GraveRobber glanced surreptitiously downward; if he could just let go and drop...surely Carmella would never follow him down _there._

"Oh no you don't," Carmella sensed GraveRobber's train of thought and grabbed the matted fur trim of his coat. She tugged GraveRobber upwards, so he had no choice but to sigh and ascend the rungs. When he'd rejoined Carmella in the surface world, GraveRobber plopped down at the lip of the open manhole, dangling his legs into the abyss. With a wrinkle of her nose, Carmella sat across from him on the dirty ground.

"Listen, I'm out of Z, okay?" GraveRobber spread his arms so she could see the lack of blue glow on his person. "See? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Do not pass go, do not collect $200."

"But I need Zydrate," Carmella said stonily, glaring unrelentingly at the dealer.

"And I don't have it. Ain't that a mighty fine predicament?" GraveRobber said with a smirk.

"I. _Need._ Zydrate," Carmella reiterated through clenched teeth.

"Too. Fucking. Bad," GraveRobber mimicked, smirk widening.

"Well, get some!" Carmella commanded, anger getting the better of her.

"I'm sorry," GraveRobber said, good humor starting to dissipate, "who are you to order me around?'

Carmella managed a tight smile. "_I_ am the customer," She chucked a wad of highly-marked bills at GraveRobber's, chest, "so _service_ me." Carmella punctuated her statement by driving the stiletto heel of her boot into GraveRobber's shin.

As pain radiated up his leg, GraveRobber considered pocketing the money and ditching, but no doubt that would come back to haunt him. Then, a thought struck him. Suddenly, GraveRobber smiled, much like the Grinch when he had a wonderful, awful idea.

"Alright, sweetheart. Let's score some Zydrate."


	10. Feel Alive

**Happy Holidays, everyone :) Please review.**

**9. (to) Feel Alive**

"_Deck the halls with nitroglycerine, Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la..."_

"Would you stop freakin singing? You're gonna get us caught," Carmella snapped. The heiress was currently perched on the headstone of the grave her companion was violating. She was less concerned with the overall creepiness of the situation than she was with the patrolling GeneCops her father employed. True, none had come over to this corner of the cemetery yet, but GraveRobber was really tempting fate by singing paraphrased Christmas carols while he worked.

GraveRobber cheerfully ignored Carmella's scolding and finished up the chorus as he found the right tool from his kit to pop open the unearthed coffin. Prying at the mouldering wood, he launched into the second verse.

"_Deck the halls with gasoline_

_Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la._

_Light a match and watch it gleam_

_Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la."_

Despite herself, Carmella giggled. It was all so fucking stupid that she couldn't help it. Besides, he really did have a hot voice. At the sound of her laugh, GraveRobber looked up at Carmella with a lopsided grin before returning to the task at hand. Carmella thought she saw a light flickering dangerously close, but she forgot about it when she saw GraveRobber pull a syringe from under his coat. He flipped the lid of the coffin to reveal a desiccated-looking body.

"_Watch your house burn down to ashes_

_Fa-la-la, la-la-la, la-la-la!"_

Carmella winced; he'd gotten even louder, and those lights were definitely getting closer.

"You fucking retard," She hissed, hopping down to duck behind the headstone. Meanwhile, GraveRobber put the needle through the corpse's skull, and that heavenly blue glow appeared before Carmella's eyes.

"_Aren't you glad you played with matches_

_Fa-la-la-la, la-la-la..."_

Without warning, GraveRobber stood up and, to Carmella's horror, proceeded to scream at the top of his lungs, "_LAAAAA!"_

"Shit!" Carmella yelped as alarms started blaring. She stood too, ready to make a quick escape. GraveRobber flashed her a brilliant grin, and Carmella had never wanted more fervently to disembowel a person.

A GeneCop loomed several feet in front of the teens, eyes and gun trained directly on GraveRobber. If possible, that freaky-ass smile widened even further, and the Zydrate-dealer held up the ashy snowball he'd been hiding behind his back. He beamed it directly at the GeneCop's helmet so slush splattered across his goggles. While the cop scraped frantically at his helmet, GraveRobber took off, whooping loudly. Carmela sprinted off behind him, heels sinking into the thin layer of snow. Milliseconds before the door slammed itself closed, the teens dove into the nearest mausoleum, gasping for breath.

Five minutes of excruciating silence passed as the rest of the GeneCops appeared and swept the scene. GraveRobber and Carmella didn't dare flinch. Finally, the alarm was silenced, and the floodlights and footsteps of the GeneCops faded off into the distance. When they were sure they were safe, Carmella and GraveRobber looked up. Their eyes met, and both teens burst into hysterical laughter.

"Shit...shit...that was great," GraveRobber gasped, "now _that's_ what I call an occupational hazard! _Damn!_"

"Oh...fuck," Carmella got out between peals of laughter, "my ribs...my fucking ribs."

"Don't worry, you can always get them replaced!" GraveRobber hooted, and they laughed even harder. It took a while for the laughter to die down, and after that they were both clutching their stomachs and giggling like a couple of five-year-olds.

"Okay, alright," Carmella stood up, face flushed from the hysterics. She wobbled over to the mausoleum door. "That was fun. Now let's get out of here."

"Oh, we can't get out," GraveRobber said lightly from his seat on the sepulcher.

Carmela froze. "What?"

"This place is on lock-down till sunrise," GraveRobber said matter-of-factly, "that's when the system resets itself."

"So you're telling me," Carmella stalked back to the sepulcher, all semblance of good humor gone, "that we're stuck in a freezing-as-fuck body-bin until morning?"

"That's the situation," GraveRobber reaffirmed, grinning pleasantly. He was enjoying this far too much.

"You planned this," Carmella accused.

"Dontcha think that's a little presumptuous, sweetheart?" GraveRobber said coolly, but there was a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

Carmella sighed, "Well Merry Freakin' Christmas." She decided that GraveRobber wasn't the worst person to be trapped in a tomb with. And besides, even grave-robbing drug-dealers and Zydrate-addicted scalpel-sluts don't like to be alone on Christmas Eve.

"Got your present right here," GraveRobber held up the pilfered Zydrate vial that had started all this trouble in the first place, "have you been naughty or nice, sweetheart?"

Instead of answering, Carmella gave him her most suggestive smirk, which he returned in full. It was very cold in the mausoleum, you see, and they both had an idea of how to keep warm.


End file.
